


O Let Not Time Deceive You

by R_Cookie



Category: Thor (2011), War Horse (2011)
Genre: AU, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-06 23:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Cookie/pseuds/R_Cookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this <a href="http://storynerd.tumblr.com/post/23818461898/goddamnhella-black-nata-you-will-pay-for">prompt</a> on Tumblr.</p><p> </p><p>He remembers his coronation, he remembers the crusade that should never have happened, he remembers the confrontation.</p><p>But above all, he remembers the crumbling bridge.</p><p>(In which The Avengers never happens.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So... I came across this in the early evening and I was mopey and crap and the angst butterfly sort of smacked me in the face. Well. This is the product of a de-funkification. (Yes, I have my own dictionary) and with it, hopefully the muse will be kind enough to lemme finish Lokasenna D:
> 
> Happy reading!

_He remembers his coronation, he remembers the crusade that should never have happened, he remembers the confrontation._

_But above all, he remembers the crumbling bridge._  

In sullen darkness and gilded walls, in a corner so deep into the castle as to be bereft of light, haloed in a spire of flawless white, he will fold himself into the small alcove carved and worn from use. And there he will remain, on the same day, every year, with every passing, oblivious to nothing and everything, trapped in a haunted world and he will understand what it was like. 

Or so he would like to think. 

(He tells himself the insanity is empathy.)

 

***

 

It begins, as it always begins.

 

***

 

The last that Thor sees of his brother, his fingers have grown slick with blood, flesh torn from the unforgiving edges of his armour, and his grip is no more. In the twisting rage of wind and magic, he feels those fingers slip past his own, beyond his reach and for all eternity. He screams and screams at the vanishing face, finally consumed by despair and madness, tear-stained and so confused. He curses the swallow of magic, the cowardice of his brother and every fibre of his being until his voice turns to nothing and the anguish steals his breath. 

His ribs are decimated, crushed and caved on each other and he kneels, curling on himself, roaring, screaming at the winds. He thinks not of the howling that drowns his sobs and stuttered gasps. He looks not at the stark, _stark_ crimson that streaks his palm, such evidence that his brother _bleeds_ as any other does - 

He knows death, has met the angel and given her many souls, and he knows the grim finality to accepting her hand. It is definitive and it cannot be undone. He thinks of lifeless, yielding green eyes and the truth that they should never dance and shine as he so loves, and it shatters his heart. 

(He prays that he should live.)  
  


***

 

For months and years they'd thought him dead. 

Mother had almost decided to lay down her needle, elegant fingers butchered and pricked from ceaseless weaving, to call forth counsel with the Allfather. And thereafter announce the death and prepare the mourners. 

But Thor clung onto hope, because when stripped of power and his title and armour, faith was all that had remained. It is what has come to define him. Not the lightning at his fingertips or the strength in his arms. 

Then, on a bleak winter day, a ball of yarn fumbles to the floor and the clatter of metal striking marble resonates in the Queen's chambers. 

"Where is he?" 

"Hush now, child." 

"Mother - " 

"He is on Midgard. But it is not of the same as you have once fallen to. Time has twisted and weaved and in the tapestry that my hands have burned for, he is found. Perhaps a century or so before the time of your Jane Foster, my dear." 

"With your blessing, I would go to him." 

Weathered hands caress his cheek.

 

***

 

He is, for lack of a better word, prepared, this time. 

He abandons his chest plate and chain mail, the greaves and his beloved cape, for something of the era. A simple shirt, frayed and tucked into well-worn breeches and labourer's boots. 

It is 1914 and Midgard is buzzing, tension-taut on the precipice of war. 

The Bifrost leaves him in a small town and though the wary looks of the commonfolk are an annoyance, Thor grins and bears, playing with charm for long enough to see him towards a small cottage with sprawling hills and a dulled field that stretches on unending. He ambles into the property, and it is different - the mortals seem different. Gone are the plain dress that he too adorns, and in its place, the men (there are _only_ men) are fitted in a murky shade of ivy, of a uniform cut and design. 

Here, the stares are even less welcoming. 

A little man comes up to him and puffs out his chest as if it would bring him courage, standing up to a god who might sooner reduce him to a smear on the ground. He likes this mortal. 

"Can I help you, Sir? Would you be here to enlist?" 

Thor frowns. "Enlist?" 

The little man stares at him with unbridled disbelief. "For the _war_ , son. Are you quite alright up there?" 

He likes him much less now. It takes considerable restraint on his part not to reach for the comforting weight of Mjölnir strapped to his hip, choosing instead to seek the dwarf's aid in finding his brother. 

He offers as detailed a description of Loki as he can and sees cautious recognition flare in mundane blue eyes. 

"I don't know what you've done to yourself, lad, but 'Loki' is a thing of _legend_ ," Thor does _not_ bristle. "But that there sounds like Captain Nicholls -" 

"Take me to him."

 

\---

 

There is a curt rap against the old wooden door and the hand pauses in its flight across the scrap of paper. 

He clears his throat, slips the scribbles and sketches into a tattered folder and answers. 

"Enter." 

He instantly identifies the soldier for his rank, and ignores the face - amidst the hundreds of men milling about camp, each feature so easily merges with the other that it would be a pointless endeavour. As it is, the sergeant barely pokes his head past the door. 

"Sir, I've got a civi here demanding to see you. Tosser won't take 'no' for an answer - " 

"Don't use such a tone with me morta - " The voice rings loud and sickeningly familiar in his ears. 

"Let him in," he calls out, cutting off the last word that would undoubtedly cause more complications than he's willing to entertain. 

He closes his eyes as the door squeals open, and listens to each heavy footfall in an echo of his heart. 

Blonde hair shimmering in the faint lamplight, features thrown into sharp relief, his _brother_ stands before him. 

And he is as magnificent as he remembers him.

 

\---

 

What he sees stops him short. 

The _person_ sitting behind the pathetic table is _not_ his brother. The _person_ watches him quietly with an air of practiced calm, patient and unreal. His eyes are placid and _kind_ , his very presence commanding order and stability. It is a subtle gift of power and Thor does not recognise his brother. 

"Get out," he snaps, forgetting himself. The midget grows an alarming shade of red, tiny hands fisted by his side. He takes a large breath, as if readying himself for a shout before he seems to think better of it and stalks away. The smarter choice, Thor thinks nastily to himself. 

"What is this?" he says, forcing a measure of composure into his voice. 

"A military camp." 

"You know what I mean, brother. You have changed," Thor growls. 

"Not as you might think," Loki says placidly. "I merely have no wish to fight you, brother. I am mortal now, you see." With infuriating calm, Loki opens his arms in surrender. 

Thor steps closer to the table; Loki's expression does not waver.

 

\---

 

"Why have you come?" 

His brother looms over the desk, casting a shadow over him, over most everything. He raises a brow at Thor, who is suddenly fascinated by a crack in the wall. He has not changed, not truly; simply forgotten. Rising once more upon his descent to this new hell, he had chosen to throw everything away, to abandon what he'd tried so desperately to cling onto. And it has worked. For the first time in his existence, it is as a mortal, the most helpless creature of the nine realms, that he finds a modicum of acceptance. 

He wants nothing to do with his past - yet, against his better judgment, fidgeting where he stands is his living nightmare. 

"To see you," his brother finally answers, though he does not look at him. "To know that you are safe." 

" _We_ are on the eve of _war_ brother," Loki laughs. 

"Do not - " Thor splutters abruptly, beautiful blue eyes turning to him. "Do not speak of yourself as - " 

"One of them?" Loki says carefully. "Why ever not? It is what I am." 

Thor closes his eyes, as if the words are daggers to his chest. Loki does not dwell on the dark corners of his mind clamouring for a row, to call his brother out on this farce. 

"Is that all? I am rather busy, you understand." He gestures vaguely to the small mountain of paperwork by his elbow. 

Loki takes his time getting to his feet, palms splayed against the coarse wood of the table the men had pieced crudely together. His knuckles are pink from the cold, his fingertips chilly, and the realisation hits him like a sledgehammer only _now_. He worries his lower lip, head dipped down and away from Thor. Self-consciously, he curls his fingers into a fist. It is warmer that way. 

"No, there is one other matter." 

"Yes?" Loki says absently. 

It does not bode well that Thor should twitch so.

 

\---

 

He tries several times to choke out the words, but his heart is hammering against his chest and he is reminded of Sif, being too young and clumsy with affection. His words wilt in his throat, and his palms grow damp with sweat. It ought not be so difficult. 

"I... I'd realised how I'd never told you before, brother - that is, in all our years as boys, growing up together all this time. It pained me that day, to realise that I'd never once -" 

"Speak, brother. Please." 

Thor flushes with embarrassment and gushes, "I wished to tell you that I love you." 

It is this sentence that causes the pretence to collapse on itself. But Thor doesn't know to take pride or hurt in it. 

Loki flinches and his brows knit together in consternation. Thor _watches_ and he commits every flicker, every shifting emotion to memory. He charts every tremble to bony hands, every shuddering breath that is needed for Loki to collect himself. He would hide in perfection, of course he would. 

When his brother looks at him once more, a few strands of his raven hair, sun-streaked to auburn, has fallen out of place, his eyes are wet and he glowers. 

"No, you do not," he whispers. "Do not _lie_ , brother. It does not become you." 

"You would think my affections untrue? You are my _brother_ , Loki - " 

"No. No, I am not," Loki hisses. "We are _done_ now. Call upon the Bifrost and do _not_ find me again." 

Without another word, Thor watches yet again as his brother slips right through his fingers. His eyes follow his brother's back as the man, so familiar and altogether alien in Midgard's poor interpretation of armour, storms out of the room. 

Thor stands alone and he makes no move to follow. 

Loki vanishes before his eyes and it is all he can do to watch.

 

***

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I finally got a [Tumblr](http://r-cookie.tumblr.com)fic account if you guys are interested for updates and such since AO3 is sadly lacking in the PM department :( Anywho, just saying. Till part 2! :D
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It could probably stand to be better... but I hope it will suffice. Lokasenna now clamours for attention and I must beg off to tend to the muse. She/he is most fickle, you understand :/ Perhaps, in time, I'll revisit and this story. For now, you have my apologies if you've spent time reading the chapter and thought to yourself that there'd been better things to have done in the time. :O
> 
> Well.
> 
> Happy reading! :D

He thinks of Loki, and he thinks of the life he's charted with every shade of mercurial eyes.

 

***

 

When they were still boys, carefree and innocent, all of Asgard knew to find Thor, would be to find the _other_. Loki was small, scrawny and an abnormality. He'd care not for the brute force of combat, nor for the rush of adrenaline that scorched his veins in battle. He was quiet, _always watching_ , absorbed in books and knowledge, magic and elegance. Thor was never much for such things, he was the shining opposite of his dark-haired brother. In every aspect, this was so. But he'd never begrudged his sibling that, instead, he found utter fascination in the way those brows would furrow in concentration, in the brilliant flames that would erupt from nothing in small palms, dancing in complement to apple-green eyes. When they were boys, Thor could sit by his side in utter stillness, and lose himself to the graceful arcs and sweeping gestures, muttered incantations and pretty phrases that became his lullabies.

In the age of innocence, Thor had delighted in what his people would scorn.

When they were on the threshold of adulthood, reckless and overconfident, where trouble and mischief left their mark, so their trail would lead to Loki. Time had changed them all; for Thor, the blinding Sun of the throne of Asgard, age had seen him bolstered and boisterous, head strong and wilful. And where once the younger son would always trot in the shadow of his older brother, that was no more. Loki walked the roads untouched by his brother, lurked in the midst of trickery and sorcery, away from the light, away from Thor.

There were fights in that time, roared challenges at Loki's defiance and pranks, curses sewn into his porcelain skin. Thor understood on some level, the workings of society and the judgment passed on a man who would not take arms, but cower in the weakness of the intangible, the ephemeral. And for every infraction, the punishment dealt upon his brother's body was wont to be twofold worse.

There was a night in the courtyard, where Thor stood watching as his brother was flayed against the wall, bleeding and silent, and he wondered to himself, through the haze of swirling emotion, when had it all changed? When had Loki stopped trying to do as Father willed, when had he begun to seek the choices that would estrange him ever more from acceptance?

And he remembers, he thinks, that perhaps it was that afternoon when they'd not been forty summers old. Battered and exhausted and still not understanding the footwork, Loki had stumbled to the ground. His knees were scrapped raw and sweat soaked his tunic through. The swordmaster had hauled him to his feet and when Loki could not find strength, the elder had proclaimed him an embarrassment. Tempers flared and in a flash of glistening ivy, his little brother had lashed out with his magic, an offence and insult to the swordmaster by the rites of battle.

The punishment had been severe.

All through the enraged reprimand the Allfather had rained on Loki, Thor could do naught but hold his tongue and force himself still.

For years and years, through every whipping and castigation, Loki would stare at him - not the wall, not the grass, not the drops of blood that painted the ground, but unwaveringly at Thor. With beseeching eyes, he would plead; he begged sympathy, he begged mercy, he begged _help me, brother_ , _please_. And Thor would not answer. In his chest clawed helplessness and a starburst of pain with every fall of the hand, with every lashing of disappointment that flooded his brother's weeping face, but he had his reasons, he did. In his heart, he knew it was the only way, the _right_ way for them both. To come to Loki's aid would be to seal his brother's reputation, to come to Loki's aid would have been tantamount to their destruction.

He had his reasons. He did.

In the Great Hall, not ten summers before, drunk on the barrels of mead and battlelust, a warrior had sullied the trickery that Loki danced in, belittled his gift and scorned his cowardice in their crusades. Thor no longer remembers the name, only that he had challenged him then, furious at the slander and the light in which his brother was painted. At the time, swelling in triumph that justice had been served, the blood of the fool dripping from Mjölnir, Thor had only been relieved that Loki had been absent during the feast. Because past the crooked smiles and shameless taunting, Thor knew too well the festering insecurities that filled his brother's heart.

It was not till later that he understood the consequences of his actions. Word of his duel with he who had spoken ill of the Trickster had spread like wildfire, penetrating the castle with uncanny speed, mutating from ear to ear. And with it followed whispers in the walls that the Golden Prince did dote too much on his brother.

Loki the Weak. Loki, who would cower behind the might of Thor.

Thor had his reasons.

He did.

 

***

 

Dusk has descended upon the land, cold, brooding hues of maroon and grey that bleed into the other as the Sun sets. It is a cruel reflection of the mood that has blanketed all of Midgard in the passing years. History has not been at its kindest.

Thor paces idly in the darkened forest, his boots crunching the dead leaves beneath his feet. It is strangely peaceful this far in, too removed from civilisation, too far from the front lines. It is dark and it is cold but the silence hums in his ears and he is at peace. He stoops to pick up a leaf, half auburn, half brown.

There is a careful footstep a few paces from him and Thor smiles.

"I told you to leave me be." He hears an angry hiss.

Thor feels his smile wane as he takes in the dreadful sight of his little brother.

Loki is sallow and bruised, his uniform hanging from his frame. The arches of his cheekbones are much too stark and the dark circles beneath dull green eyes speak of the deprivation slowly killing him. Thor tries not to stare too hard at the faint trembling of bony fingers, easily chilled where once Loki would never have understood what it meant to be cold.

"Yet you came," he says lightly.

"Mother insisted," Loki looks furiously away.

It is a startling contrast to the calm he'd first been introduced to, but Thor knows what war might do to a man. Strip away the humanity, tear away the control. The bite is what he remembers of his little brother, and for that, Thor might give thanks to the brutality of these battlefields.

"What is it you want this time?" Loki leans against a tree, sags against it and crosses his arms. His eyes are half-lidded when they glare at Thor.

"The same as the last," he answers serenely.

The turn from weariness to ire falls in a heartbeat. Loki's stormy green eyes snap open and he takes a vicious step closer to his brother, the trembling in his hands no longer from the cold alone. Thor does not move, not even when Loki is scant inches from him that all he need do is twitch his hand and he'd be able to brush against those long, knobbly fingers he has missed watching.

"You _dare_?" Loki snarls, wild and savage. "You would _dare_ continue with your asinine declaration? What right have you to - " He cuts himself off and turns sharply on his heel, trying to find focus on something to take the anger away that he might _speak_.

"What right have you to love me when you would _walk away_ at every tear, every plea for your intervention. Where were you when I _needed_ you, _brother_?" Loki shouts and the mocking edge to his voice is a sick twist of the knife in his chest.

"I would beg your forgiveness, had I belief that you would give it to me," Thor tries, fighting away the urge to _do_ something as Loki paces madly. "There is nothing I might do that can change what has passed, I know this. These... events have made me realise the severity of my mistakes, but I would not use it as an excuse of my folly. I was only trying to do right by you, the only way I'd known how."

Loki's face crumples and from his throat he wrings out a broken laugh.

"To do _right_ by me? Your _stupidity_ , I'd once thought had a boundary, _brother_. What might have possessed you to think that leaving me to _all of that_ might be a good idea? What - "

"Knowledge of what our people think, brother. To have intervened would have given them _proof_ that you were what they'd thought. That you were incapable of defending yourself, that you were _weak_. And I would not anybody think that of you!"

"Oh, no. You would leave me to the _wolves_ , to bleed and scream and have humiliation branded upon my flesh for my own good!"

"I'd done what I'd thought _right_ at the time!" Thor snaps, finally. There is an ugly fury, venomous in his chest and there is nothing more he can do to hold it back. He knows his brother is overcome with exhaustion, knows his obstinacy and prejudice is blinding him, knows he _deserves_ Loki's distrust and everything else he might hurl at him, but his heart is screaming otherwise. His brother is slipping from his grasp and the surge of desperation and mottled emotion makes him feel far too tight in his skin. His words are no longer his to control - he would suffer the pain as much as he would inflict it.

"What else must I do to prove my love not a lie?" he roars, crowding his brother until he has the slight figure pressed up against a trunk. "I offer you my _heart_ , my _soul_ , _everything_ that I am. **Consume** me if you will. I _love_ you, brother, do you understand what I'm saying? I _love_ you more than what blood would dictate. I _love_ you and I am giving you my heart, that which you would scarcely believe anybody else would do - "

"Am I meant to be grateful, then? That the monster should be blessed that someone, the _mighty_ Thor, would deign pity the creature?" Loki mocks, snide, lips curling in a spiteful smirk.

"You are not a monster, you've never been. Not when you were Jotunn, and not now when you are mortal!" Thor snarls, smashing his fist against the tree in a shower of splinters. Thor cages his brother with his body, where once Loki stood of equal height, he now seems disturbingly fragile, and the realisation does nothing to soothe the havoc of emotions raging within.

Helplessly, Thor reaches out to touch his brother's face, only for Loki to jerk back, as if scalded. His throat burns, and his hands tremble with every shaky breath, but Thor trudges on. There is nowhere to go when he insists on touching the pads of his fingers along the arch of one cheekbone, and Loki looks away.

"I... love you regardless and I am sorry that I have never said so before," he says softly. "If I could turn back time, I would have _protected_ you when we were children, I would that you never understand what it was to be _unloved_. I would that you never have to cry, I would have destroyed _everything_ not because I doubt your powers or your strength, but that your beauty ought not be tainted nor _wasted_ on anything. I am saying that I _love_ you, brother. Why need it be so hard for you to accept?"

It is the one question Loki will not answer. His fingers twist the hem of his uniform sleeve and he hunches in on himself. It would be a lie should he say that he cares not for his brother's affections. Aside from the Allfather, it was Thor's opinion that he'd quietly coveted - he'd been his brother and he'd been his only ally. But the years staggered by and it was all Loki could do but define his existence by the pain and darkness that festered in his soul, debilitating and poisonous, as he came to understand that hope was for the gullible and optimism for the foolish. It was naught but for the idealistic to set oneself up for disappointed hopes.

He feels his shoulders slump, and succumbs to the buckling of his knees. Loki pushes weakly against the tree, slowing his fall to the ground. The need to fight has all but dissipated and he cannot find the strength to foster it back. It is all... so _pointless_ now. In the wake of the storm, Loki feels every inch of his mortality, the crippling toll of a war that should not be his to bear, settling in his bones.

He does not raise his head, need not see to know from the rustling fabric that his brother now kneels before him.

Tentative, hesitant. _Insecure_. They are not words he would ever use in association with his brother - but they are all that come to mind as Thor reaches out once more.

Loki does not wait for those arms to encircle him, and finds no warmth from the heat that Thor always gives out. His fingers are numb, his ribs do not cease their dull throbbing, and his face feels bitterly cold. Unceremoniously, he shifts, his battered body protesting, and nestles his forehead into the soft fabric of his brother's shirt. Thor's broad shoulders, solid and unyielding, make him want to weep, an onslaught of memories of those shoulders blocking out the moonlight, dampened by sweat and tears wrangled from nightmares of red eyes and blue skin, rare memories as mere _boys_ long buried and hidden away.

Thor wraps his arms around Loki, unwilling to question the change of heart. He buries a hand in the curling locks of hair and breathes deep.

"You are weary, brother," he murmurs gently, rubbing his large hand along the spine that is much too pronounced through the coarse make of the uniform.

Loki huffs into the crook of Thor's neck and the blonde can feel his brother's frown.

"Yes," his voice breaks. "Yes, I am."

 

\---

 

"Do you think me weak?"

He sounds so small.

"No. Not since a long, long time ago. Not since blindness has left me."

"We ride into battle tomorrow, brother," Loki whispers into Thor's neck, thick lashes dark against his pale skin. "Do not find me, do not interfere."

Thor snaps opens his eyes and he makes to pull away, if only to face his brother proper. But for all that he is mortal, Loki would have none of it.

Wiry arms tighten around Thor's back. "Watch, if you so choose, in your throne up in the heavens. But do _nothing_."

Thor scarcely breathes when Loki detaches himself from him, long fingers gathering the fabric of Thor's shirt collar. "Yes?"

Every instinct in him rages against the very idea.

"Yes," Thor chokes out.

"I shall prove your faith in me not misplaced. I shall prove my worth, my _strength_ to you, my King," Loki murmurs, scant inches from his brother's lips. The harshness of stormy, emerald eyes have softened, but the smirk is self-deprecating, his tone derisive and it is all Thor can do to kiss those thin lips, to drown it all away.

"I am not yet your King," he says into his brother's mouth.

"You will be," Loki breathes. "You always have been."

 

***

 

The early morning sun paints the wheat fields a stunning gold. The Midgardian soldiers, the troops amongst which he picks out his little brother, have been awake for several hours, nerves and adrenaline fuelling their sleep-deprived bodies and he knows the thrill. The mortals plan to lead with their steeds, foot soldiers streaming in thereafter. The horses are restless, spurred by their riders, and the magnificent stallion his brother sits regally upon reminds him far too much of Sleipnir.

(He remembers how he'd wept and fought when the Allfather had laid claim upon the colt, had taken him away and rode upon him as if he were not Loki's son but an animal, senseless and expandable.)

 

\---

 

They stand in waiting, hidden by the tall wheat that grows.

The signal is silent, a gesture followed by a wave of rustling as the cavalry mount their horses. The air is stifling, from the heat, from the anticipation.

The unsheathing of their blades is a glorious sound, the grate of sharpened metal never so sweet as now. The sword rests lightly against his chest and his eyes stray from the front, darting to the officers he has come to call comrades.

"Good luck," he wishes them, hoping his trepidation does not bleed into his voice. It is unfounded, he knows. They have the advantage, there is nothing to fear.

The order is barked loud in the stillness of the morning, and the charge begins.

He loses himself to the pounding of hooves, the rhythmic beating thrumming through his body in time with the clamouring of his heart as it slams against his ribs. With every streak of gold that whips past him, his heart soars ever higher.

This is battle, he thinks. _This_ is the addictiveness of promised triumph and glory that his brother basks in, and he thinks he's begun to understand.

Up ahead, they break through the fields and into a clearing. In the shortening distance, he sees _their_ camp and it is barren. As the earth shudders under the swelling war cry of thundering hooves, he relishes the unadulterated shock that courses through the enemy. They scramble and scatter like ants upon the fire, caught unaware and humiliatingly unprepared. The have no cavalry, no order in their chaos, and the men fall under the crushing arc of their blades, parting for them like they were _gods_.

He does not realise the vicious smile that has spread across his face, not until his leader catches his eye and returns one in kind, soaring on battlelust and the scent of victory. As before and as they always have, the Major's smile softens to something boyish and the unspoken challenge is issued with a pompous jerk of the reins.

As before and as they always have, they race against the other, slaughtering the Germans like the task now secondary. The stallions gallop on undaunted, swallowing up the ground as they hasten after the retreating soldiers, chasing them to the fringes of the woods.

The Sun blares down on him and the layers of the uniform are suffocating. Sweat trickles down his neck, slithers down his back and as the sunlight reflects off something in a blinding flash, it turns cold with dread.

In the sanctuary of the forest, underestimated by their own intelligence, the enemies wait in line behind their monstrous machine guns.

There is barely a second for the weapons to register in his mind before an unending spray of bullets ricochet off the ground, through unsuspecting men and he watches as the soldiers crumple to the ground like puppets ripped of their strings. Grime and dirt erupt from the earth in erratic spurts, and the sound of gunfire is joined by screams caught between agony and surprise. Beside him, a bullet catches the rider in the head and there is a splatter of red that coats his own sleeve.

He wrenches his eyes away from the sight and searches frantically for the Lieutenant.

He screams, screams his name though to what end he does not know. He screams and through the cacophony of  the battlefield, his voice reaches him. The man turns, for a fraction of a second - and then he is gone. In the blink of an eye, his horse gallops on, completely unaware of the absence of his rider.

His breath quickens and he fists the leather reins in his hands. Turning his attention back to the front, his eyes scan the long line of machine gun nests.

In the distance, a pair of steely grey eyes look staunchly back at him. He traces the swerve of the machine gun and the direct line of fire. Packed this close, there is no way for him to break away, and the world begins to narrow. In his entire life, not once has he feared the end, not once has he truly considered his mortality. He was the Prince of Asgard first, then the Prince of Jotunheim - he was the Lie-Smith, he was the God of Mischief... he was _infallible_.

Loki does not close his eyes. He cannot.

He is twenty summers old and he cannot remember his way out of the Room of Mirrors. His brother listens to their father and has refused to come along. He is twenty summers old and the walls are closing in -

There is no sound when his chest is punctured.

There is no sound when he hits the ground.

 

***

 

At the end of the First World War, history recalls the ending so abrupt, soldiers of the enemy thought the order of surrender a lie. Communication lines had been down for days and with the numerous checkpoints orders had to pass through, officers had inevitably grown wary of the accuracy of the telegrams.

The official reason behind the surrender of the Germans would later be released as a culmination of severe German resource depletion and the arrival of the American army that the Germans were in no state to battle.

What the governments had withheld from all knowledge were the reports by numerous war journalists, every single one spinning a fantastical, incredulous story that spoke of freak weather and bolts of lightning that struck the ground in a continuous stream.

 

***

 

He doesn't think.

He _cannot_.

His body acts on its own accord, and the storm clouds amass with frightening speed.

There is white noise and an emotion that seizes him whole, it freezes his heart and burns his soul.

He watches his brother topple from the stallion in bursts of crimson and knows no more.

 

\---

 

Thor screams as if it were his body that jerks like a marionette with each bullet that embeds itself within. He abandons his idleness and calls upon the Bifrost, oblivious to the curious compliancy of Heimdall, and bears down on Midgard in a surge of lightning that sears the ground and trembles the earth, leaving a haloed ring about his brother and himself. The sky is charcoal grey and the clouds gather in an ominous rumble overhead.

In the chaos of battle, the humans stutter, startled and confused, unknowing if the intruder is a friend or foe.

Rising to his feet, Thor releases a roar that is strangled from deep in his chest. In his hand, Mjölnir crackles with electricity, lightning-white and glowing blue.

"You will _pay_ for what you have done! Every single one of your petty race shall pay. I will see your pathetic world **burned** to the core, I will see it _burn_ to nothing for what you have done to my brother!"

Thor plants his feet in the ground and winds Mjölnir toward the sky. The clouds begin to swirl, coalescing in a vicious storm, the winds picking up terrific speed. Without warning, Thor smashes the hammer to the earth and the ground parts from it in a web of crevices. Lightning blasts down from amidst the clouds in a parting of the heavens, scorching the earth and the mortals that dare flee the wrath of Thor.

The rumbling of hooves never ceases and through the panicked neighs of the horses, Thor turns on the Midgardians. They charge towards him in an impressive herd, Germans and British alike, bullets flying and ricocheting off his armour like they were nothing more than a tiresome distraction. 

The rain now comes in a merciless downpour. 

Thor raises Mjölnir and unleashes another bout of lightning, striking the men, searing their bodies to nothing but blackened, charred remains. The air crackles, charged with electricity and the lightning continues to fall. 

He calls down bolt after bolt, burning the trees until his vision is tinged with the orange-red of vengeful flames. He calls down bolt after bolt, until the humans are sizzling under the unrelenting surge of electricity, white-hot and unforgiving. He does not stop, not even when he staggers, not even when the world begins to blur. 

Thor wobbles on his feet and glowers through the blinding rain at the destruction he has wrought, taking a faltering step forward to his brother. 

Mjölnir drops from his hand, and he falls to his knees. Gently, he cradles the limp body in his arms and brings him close. He does not look at the pool of blood that begins to paint his armour the same shade of red, he does not care for the blood that still leaks sluggishly from the holes ripped across the chest. 

His brother is deathly cold, and he does not breathe. 

In the storm, his cries cannot be heard, the anguish and screams of a wounded animal all but drowned in the heavy patter of rain. 

In the storm, he weeps and prays to the Allfather, he begs for the Apples of Idunn, he begs for mercy. 

... 

Thor fumbles to close frightened green eyes with a hand that quakes unbearably. 

His brother is deathly cold and he does not breathe again.

 

***

 

 _It was the Queen that had descended upon Midgard that day, coaxing her son do stand._

_The storm began to fade, the lightning began to calm with a graceful sweep of her hand. The Earth was deathly silent, and the sun lay enshrouded by the clouds. The land would never heal, and it would never bear life again - but the Queen walked on._

_"That is enough," she said, sad and bone-weary._

_"It is time," she whispered, kneeling beside the oldest of her children. Her rich, snow white gown folded and sunk into the filthy ground, yet it remained untainted._

_She took her eldest son's face in her palms and beseeched him reconsider his promise - that the death of her youngest had not been by the fault of the race entire, but the self-defence of one man. It was war, she said firmly, though her voice bore a quiver that spoke of more than her demeanour would let on._

_In the aftermath of devastation, the Queen of Asgard bid her sons return to their realm._

_He remembers the weight in his arms and the impossibility of slaking the need for revenge, but he'd done wrong before, in believing his heart entire, and he would not make that mistake again. He recalls the Bifrost and the deadened drag of each step towards the Great Hall -_  

In the tiny alcove carved into the wall, Thor squeezes his eyes shut. With clumsy fingers, he feels along the smooth marble until the pads of his fingers find the carvings made by the dulled edge of the knife in the small satchel he carries on his belt. 

Reverently, he unsheathes the familiar dagger and weighs it in his palm. The metal is Dwarven forged and the emerald hilt scavenged from a hunt, and Thor remembers the gift to his brother when he'd come of age. He takes hold of it as always, and adds another stroke to the wall, another marking to remember the day. 

He sits, curled in on himself, for just a moment longer. 

But as the first light of dawn begins to peek through the clouds, Thor will inch his way out of the cramp space and straighten to his full height, bones cracking. 

He will press his fingers to his lips and caress the smooth, white marble in a final act of parting. 

His strides will echo about the empty chamber of pillars and windows until he reaches the double door. He will push past them, then, and close the heavy mahogany gently behind him. 

And so the tomb will remain, locked and untouched till the turn of the next year.

 

 

 

 

 

~Fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> So... I finally got a [Tumblr](http://r-cookie.tumblr.com)fic account if you guys are interested for updates and such since AO3 is sadly lacking in the PM department :( Anywho, just saying. Till part 2! :D
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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